


all you love is lost on me

by violentdarlings



Series: Entrapment Boning [4]
Category: Entrapment (1999)
Genre: Angst, Entrapment, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Underloved Fandom, sexy sex sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More of this obscure fandom with which I am deeply in love with, and more sexy times with my favourite odd couple pairing. Because sometimes, we all want to bone a Scottish guy three times our age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all you love is lost on me

**Author's Note:**

> A note to my beautiful readers, favouriters and commenters: you're all amazing, and I love you. You should definitely go and watch Entrapment, because it's awesome. But my taste in movies is debateable. I mean, I thought League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was awesome too, and apparently it's not. (Thanks for bursting my bubble, Douchebag Ex Boyfriend.) I'm planning a LXG team orgy fic as we speak.
> 
> Kisses,  
> VD. (And no, that doesn't stand for venereal disease.)

It’s icy, but not nearly as much as when you first came here. These days it’s warm enough to jog in just a T-shirt and track pants, even as there’s still a bitter wind coming in off the loch. For once you’re on your own. Mac was up until four am, tapping away at his laptop. You’d turned in around eleven yourself, and woken as he came to bed just before dawn. “Where’ve you been?” you’d mumbled into the pillow, still half asleep.

“Troubleshooting,” he’d replied, not even bothering to change into his pyjamas as he slips into bed beside you. He’s bare-chested but still in his trousers and it’s too easy to turn over and cocoon him in your arms. “Gin,” he sighs, strong arms coming up to wrap around you, and the sound of your name is enough to soothe you back into slumber.

You rise at your habitual six am and jog the usual track around the castle, past the loch. The wind bites at your cheeks and nips at your arms but you stay out for the usual hour, anyway. And then into the kitchen for tea and breakfast, and before you know it it’s almost ten and Mac is nowhere to be seen.

You climb the stairs to the bedroom you still think of as his. It’s been four months since you met him a scant two weeks before the new Millennium, three and a half since Kuala Lumpur and two and a half since the diamond job. Four months is not a long time, not by anyone’s estimation, yet you feel as if you’ve known him forever. Wry, sarcastic Mac, with his castle full of fine art and his prickly personality. He fits you like a battered old glove, and he’d agree with the comparison, too.

That’s the troubling part. Even after everything, after he almost drowned you and you almost bludgeoned him to death with a metal suitcase. Even after the _extraordinarily_ hot sex that is undoubtedly the best you’ve ever had - and isn’t there something to be said for a man with experience? Even after all of that, he still doubts you. Still waits until the lights are out before disrobing, as though it’s somehow escaped your notice that your bed partner is thirty years older than you. At _least_. As though he thinks that the moment you notice, that’ll be the end of it. It’s sweet, and frustrating, and it makes you more than a little concerned.

Because Mac is fucking _amazing_. He’ll go down on you for _hours_ , until you’re wet and quivering and begging for him to stop, to keep going, to let you return the favour. And he’d just scoff and hold your thighs apart with his big hands and dive back in like your cunt is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, the sweetest thing he’ll ever taste. And you want him to feel the same way. Like he’s adrift in a sea and you’re the only thing anchoring him as he drifts on the waves.

He’s still in bed, twisted in the sheets where you left him, even as light spills from the lone window to illuminate the glorious art he’s collected over the years. And, of course, the enormous diamond that you and Mac ‘liberated’ from Africa. The gem is scattered carelessly on the bedside table, beside the spectacles Mac refuses to accept he needs and the novel you’ve been reading. You can just see a mussed head of white hair and broad shoulders over the top of the quilts, and impulsively you kiss along that tempting path of muscle, to finish where his neck meets his hairline.

“Gin?” he asks, voice thick with sleep, and you delight in it, how relaxed he is around you now. And, as well, the drawl of his voice, the shift of muscles under his skin. “What time is it?”

“Ten,” you reply, fitting yourself to curve of his body, making him your little spoon. “You’ve overslept.” He snorts into the pillow.

“Give me some credit, woman. I didn’t get to bed until three.”

“Four, actually,” you correct. “What were you doing?”

“Lending a hand,” he yawns, head still buried in the pillow, and you kiss all you can of his bearded cheek. “Mmm.” Half asleep Mac is your favourite Mac, at least until your next favourite one appears. Sexy Mac, pissed off Mac, plotting Mac, obnoxious Mac. Even geekily amused at his own jokes Mac. “You were up early.”

“Not all of us can sleep the day away,” you retort tartly, and dodge his hastily aimed swat. “Naughty, MacDougal. Very naughty.” His response is muffled, but you hear the familiar rumble of four letter words, and your name. You grin, and kiss his neck once more. “Fair enough. Get some more rest.”

He appears later around one, when you’re curled up in an armchair reading. This whole not having a full time job business is one you’re still finding it hard to adapt to. Working a sixty hour week at Waverly Insurance for five years has left you with a hollow in your life, one that not even Mac can fill. You’ve tried many things, but the only pastime that can satisfy you is reading until your eyes blur. There was no time for books in those long years in your cubicle, but there is now, and Mac seems to know it. Every week a vast box of books arrive, more than you could read in a year, fiction and non-fiction; hell, even cookbooks. You pick through them and devour them like Mac devours you in bed, and your life has settled into something more than the slow, painful drudgery it was before.

“What are you reading?” he asks, and you finish your page before looking up at him. He’s showered and shaved a little, even though he never goes completely without his beard. You kind of like it, though.

“A history of the Dutch Golden Age painters,” you reply. “You should know, you ordered it for me.” He chuckles as he puts the kettle on.

“I hardly think you need to research, given your light-fingered escapades with one of Rembrandt’s works.”

“It’s pleasure, not business,” you reply.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and neither should he be. You’re a thief, for God’s sake. You should be always plotting something. Otherwise, you’re not worthy of the title.

Beside, your plotting at this particular moment has nothing to do with stealing more art. More along the lines of stealing the clothes straight off your… what is he? Boyfriend is far too cavalier, especially considering it’s been a long time since Mac was a boy. Even though he does get that mischievous glint every once in a while… Paramour, you’re sure, hasn’t been used in a century. Partner? Well, he is that. Your partner in crime, quite literally.

“Mac?” you ask, and find him immersed in the newspaper. He flicks his eyes up to yours. “What are we, exactly?”

“Human beings, I believe,” he says with perfect innocence, and hello obnoxious Mac.

“You ass. I mean, what are we to one another?” At this, he lowers the paper.

“Gin, what’s brought this on?”

“Nothing!” you huff, and he lifts a sceptical eyebrow. “Don’t eyebrow me, Mac.”

“Why do we have to put a label on it?” he asks. “We’re partners.”

“Partners as in lovers or partners as in we steal stuff?” You rake a hand through your messy hair in frustration.

“Both,” he deadpans.

“So, what? We keep doing this until one of us - or both of us - dies or gets caught?”

“I would prefer neither of us die or get caught,” he snaps. “Gin, what do you want me to say? That I’ll get that enormous diamond set into a ring and we’ll get married?”

“Why not?” you counter, and just like that, it’s a fight. “We could do it.”

“First of all,” he barks. “You’re a known fugitive, so forget registering the marriage. And once it gets into the system, Gin Baker and Robert MacDougal, the FBI - and God knows who else - will be down on us like a ton of bricks. And furthermore -” His voice cracks, and then steadies. “As for children, brilliant. Fantastic idea. If we get onto it now, our child could be, what? Sixteen by the time I’m eighty?” A shadow flickers over his face, and just like that all the fight drains out of you. Instead ,you pick up your blue coat from where you’d thrown it over a chair, and head towards the door. “Where are you going?” he asks, voice heavy with resignation, and you don’t answer.

You don’t rightly know.

_xx_

By the time you get back to the castle, dark has long since fallen. Night is wrapped around you like a cloak, and Mac is nowhere to be seen. The worst part is, you’re not surprised. How often did you fight with him while planning the mask job? Counting petty squabbles, you find you can’t remember; the number is too large. And the absolutely stupendous row in Kuala Lumpur that had led to an all out brawl? Well before Mac was your lover, you were sticking it to him and relishing the consequences. Now, though, the sight of that old pain settling over him is enough to stick something sharp into your chest, to claw at your gut.

You find him with the whisky on the roof. He’s sitting on the floor of the very top platform, looking utterly miserable, and impulsively you stoop to kneel beside him and wrap him in your arms. “I’m sorry,” you say without meaning to, and you’re not sorry for the fight. It was a legitimate concern to bring up, and he overreacted. But you are sorry for the pervasive desolation that seems to add a thousand years to him.

“It was hardly your fault,” he replies after a long silence, his voice ragged. The thought of him arguing with himself in the bitter wind and growing darkness is enough to send a shudder through your body, enough to clutch him closer.

“I wish you’d tell me about your past, Mac.” And it’s true. You’ve heard whispers from Hector back at Waverly Insurance, and Mac has let a couple things slip, usually after a good deal of whisky. You know he used to be married, some forty years ago, and was widowed. But beyond that, nothing.

“There’s not much to tell,” he says into your hair, and as a particularly icy blast of wind hits you, you’ve had enough. You stand, and pull him to his feet, the comforting weight of his hand in yours.

“Let’s go inside.”

_xx_

Your hands are blocks of ice, but Mac is far colder. Nothing melts the freezing from you like a hot shower, so he disappears into the en suite in his bedroom and you use the little downstairs one with the terrible water pressure. The pipes groan and you wait until he’s finished upstairs before braving the temperamental hot water service. You dress in the chilly air and head up the staircase to find Mac sitting on his bed, staring into midair. He’s dressed, but the clothes from before are crumpled on the ground, very unlike him.

What you want to say is something light and bubbly, something to dispel the tension in the air, but you can’t find it in you. So what you do say is: “I’m never going to leave you,” without meaning to, and wincing as he flinches.

“You can’t promise that,” he rumbles, voice deeper than usual, and even in this deeply inappropriate moment you feel that flicker of desire deep in your spine.

“Are you afraid of me dying, or me getting sick of you?” you ask, and Christ, this is familiar territory. But if he needs to hear it every day from now until forever, then you’ll do it. Happily. “And don’t tell me that ‘you’re so young, Gin’ crap again. Yes, I’m young. It doesn’t mean I don’t know my own mind.” So, OK. You’ll happily do it. But you’re still you.

“I believe you,” he assures. “But regardless, what I said before holds true. Gin, it is very likely I’ll die before you -”

“We’re thieves, I could get shot any time,” you interrupt.

“Nevertheless,” he continues doggedly, “my point still stands. What about children, Gin?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t you want them?” he asks bluntly, and for a moment you genuinely consider the question. You’ve always assumed you’ll end up with kids and a husband some day. Even between fantasies of becoming the world’s greatest thief, you’ve always had that thought in the back of your mind. And sure, Mac might fulfil the first part of that, but not all.

“I want you,” you realise slowly. “If being with you means no kids, then fine. I can live with that.” He regards you with steady, dark eyes for a long minute before nodding.

“I believe you,” he says, leaning forward, and you close your eyes and kiss him.

The first time you ever kissed Mac, you were the aggressor. You pursued him with your lips and your body, still quivering from the adrenalin that pumped through your body when you hit him. It had surprised you, perhaps even more than it had surprised him, when you’d butterflied kisses over his cheeks, his eyes, his noise. You hadn’t known you had that sort of tenderness in you.

It’s different, this time, than before. You defiantly leave the lights on and strip him slowly, painstakingly, of every piece of clothing. You study the tattoo on his forearm, the dark hair on his chest; explore the broadness of his shoulders with your hands. You bat his hands away when he tries to touch you, you keep him on his back every time he tries to get up, and finally, when you’re both naked on his bed with the heater on full blast, you lower your head to take his cock in your mouth.

When you first wrap your lips around him, he shudders, cursing eloquently, hands bunched into fists at his sides. You love his responsiveness, much as you know he loves yours, and it sets your blood to singing. As much as you love this, you're an impatient creature at heart, and you straddle him, his hands sliding up to butterfly his fingernails over your skin. You slide down on him, ride him slowly, until you’re consumed all the way through and your hips are hard and fast against his.

You kiss him as you come, and half a second later you feel the surge of wetness as he comes inside you. This time, you hadn’t bothered with the condom. You’re on the Pill, after all, and it’s not like the pair of you are sleeping with anyone else. You collapse down onto his chest, his heart thundering against your cheek and his hand lazily stroking your hair, and just like that you know.

“Mac, I love you,” you whisper against the dusting of chest hair against your cheek. He stills.

“You’ve never said that to me before,” he says, and you can feel the vibration of his larynx against your forehead. Delicately, he pulls up the blankets to cover you, and twists so you’re curled against his side.

“Maybe I never knew before,” you retort, and wait a long second. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say it back.”

“Maybe I want to,” he snips, before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. “I love you, idiot girl.”

“Coming from you, that’s like a compliment,” you reply tartly, before all of what he’s said sinks in. “You love me?”

“How many times do I have to say it, _Virginia_?” he drawls, and you slap him sharply on whatever part of him is closest to hand.

“As many as I want, _Robert_ ,” you reply, and he winces.

“Please, never again. I haven’t gone by Robert since my mother died.” You peer up at him.

“How long ago was that?” you inquire, and Mac shrugs.

“I was twelve,” he says, with the bluntness of someone who’s had a long time to adjust to the loss.

“I can’t imagine calling you anything else,” you remark, kissing his shoulder blade lightly, and he repays with one on your forehead.

“Nor should you.” He hesitates for a moment. “Gin… about what we just did.” And you just can’t resist.

“Yes, Mac. See, it goes like this. When a pair of international art thieves love each other very much, they take off all their clothes and -”

“Very amusing,” he snips. “Stop laughing. I meant, it was different this time, wasn’t it?” You squint at him out of one eye; the other is pressed against his skin.

“Yeah,” you reply frankly.

“Does that mean… I haven’t been pleasuring you properly? The way you like, I mean. You were just so…dominant, this time.”

“You’re joking, right?” you ask incredulously. “Mac, you’re fucking amazing. You’re the best sex I’ve ever had. Stop fishing for compliments.”

“I am not,” he drawls, tapping you hard on the head, and you bite lazily at his skin.

“Besides,” you continue, “sometimes I like to be in charge. Sometimes I like for you to be. Is that so weird?”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” he grumbles, and you shrug.

“I’m a twenty-first century woman, Mac,” you reply. “We’re a new breed.”

“You’ll put me in an early grave, more like,” he drawls.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” you ask. “Dinner? More sex? You could tell me about your bank robbing days.”

“I could,” he says thoughtfully. “On the other hand…”

“The other hand?” you inquire when he goes quiet.

“I think Thibadeaux left me a pair of handcuffs somewhere around here…”

“You want to play sex games with the cuffs that belonged to a FBI agent? The agent that nabbed us both?”

“You don’t need to put it like that,” he says primly, and you roll back on top of him.

“I’ll put it any way I like,” you murmur, his eyes dark and his hands tight on your hips, and if this is all you’ll ever have, then so be it.

This is enough.


End file.
